


the path of fire you shall tread

by Damkianna



Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, Backstory, Complicated Relationships, F/F, Gen, Politics, Pre-Canon, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Four ways Sivagami could have come to the decision to care for Amarendra Baahubali as if he were her own—and one world in which there was no need.





	the path of fire you shall tread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> This ... is basically a consequence of me having so many different ideas about who Amarendra's mother could have been and what her relationship with Sivagami might have been like that I couldn't stick to just one. /o\ Plus a little self-indulgent fix-it for the fifth thing. :D Thank you for your wonderful request and letter, egelantier—I hope very much that you enjoy this, and happy Yuletide!
> 
> Title from a translation of the poem "Agneepath" (which was also used for some of the lyrics in the movie _Agneepath_ ) by Harivansh Rai Bachchan.

 

 

**one.**

When the signs are wholly unmistakable, when Sivagami is at last certain she is pregnant, she smiles.

Not because Bijjaladeva will be pleased, though that is undoubtedly true. Not because it will make the people glad, because there will surely be a festival, because any birth in the royal family strengthens their house—though all these things, too, are true. Not even because she had begun to think it was not possible, had begun to fear she might never have a child of her own.

No, it is none of these. She smiles because she knows how maids talk; because soon one of them will speak of it where Anjali may hear.

 

Anjali is, Sivagami supposes, lovely. She is not foolish. She has a certain presence, impossible to ignore; she speaks with eloquence; she moves with grace.

But she is also petty, prideful, small-minded. She shows Bijjaladeva none of the respect owed to an elder brother-in-law, looks upon his withered arm with disgust—and upon Sivagami with a smug and cloying pity that sticks in Sivagami's throat like laddu dipped in too much honey.

But Vikramadeva is king, and Anjali his queen, and Sivagami is capable of exercising restraint when it is necessary. She despises Anjali; but she does it quietly, where no one sees. Except now—

Now, at last, Anjali will feel herself insulted. Not by any word Sivagami has spoken, any of a dozen deliberate slights Sivagami might have aimed in her direction, but simply by this blessing, simply by the knowledge that Sivagami's child will be the first born to the royal house of Mahishmathi.

And the sheer sweet satisfaction of it, oh, _that_ is laddu worth the eating.

 

She is summoned to Anjali's side within the day. In the past, it has been Anjali's habit to greet Sivagami easily, pleasantly; to lounge while they speak, in queenly comfort, with the glimmer of that pitying smile always playing about the corners of her mouth.

This time is not like that. This time Anjali is standing, and Sivagami has barely begun to greet her with the proper obeisance when Anjali holds up a hand and says, "Enough. Is it true?"

Sivagami says nothing, only lifts her chin and looks steadily at Anjali.

And that is answer enough, surely; it must be, with the way Anjali's eyes blaze, the way her mouth twists. All at once, in a rush of steps, she crosses the space between them and catches Sivagami by the arm, bruising.

"It doesn't matter," she says, sharp, as if the saying will make it true. "Do you understand? It doesn't matter. I _will_ have a son, Sivagami, and he will be king in Mahishmathi. You will not prevent it."

Sivagami remains silent. There is nothing that needs saying: she is with child and Anjali is not.

But Anjali will not be satisfied by silence. Her grip tightens further, around Sivagami's elbow; and then she yanks Sivagami close and there is a flash of metal—

"Say it," Anjali hisses, and Sivagami stands with her throat against the knife Anjali has raised to it and doesn't permit herself to flinch.

She despises Anjali. But—

But this, of all things, Sivagami understands. For once, Anjali does what Sivagami would do. Sivagami's belly has barely even begun to round; but she settles her palm against it and thinks about a child, thinks about a crown prince and a kingdom and the cries of jackals in the wind.

Today, Vikramadeva is king, and his people love him, and his court heeds him, and Mahishmathi is strong. Today.

Who can say what will be tomorrow?

Sivagami wraps her hand around Anjali's, around the hilt of the knife, and doesn't look away. "I will not prevent it," she agrees.

"You will not do him harm," Anjali insists. "Promise me! You will defend him from his enemies, you will not let Mahishmathi be torn apart just because he is my son—"

Anjali has no hand free to hold out, to seal a vow upon; Sivagami presses her thumb against the blade of the knife instead, smears welling blood across the heel of Anjali's hand, her knuckles, the highest of the gold bracelets circling her wrists. "I swear it," she says, fierce, and Anjali—even Anjali—knows better than to disbelieve her, and lowers the knife at last.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**two.**

Sivagami almost wishes she disliked Kamala.

It would be easier, a little. The things Bijjaladeva says, with no one to hear him but Sivagami—they would trouble her, still, but perhaps they would not have the same sting. Bijjaladeva's resentment of Vikramadeva is indecorous, foolish, better set aside, but Sivagami is familiar with the seed from which it sprang, understands how it came to sink such deep roots. And despite it all, Bijjaladeva has attained some measure of peace, serving so great a king as Vikramadeva. That Sivagami is now with child has satisfied him still further; for there were many who once whispered that a cripple such as he would surely prove impotent.

So if he wishes to allow himself a little petty mutter of discontent—well, what harm can it do, in so strong a kingdom?

But Kamala—oh, if Kamala heard even a word of it, Sivagami thinks, it would break her heart. It frustrates Sivagami enough that Bijjaladeva is so short-sighted, that he cannot think of Mahishmathi before he thinks of himself. But it is a different kind of pain, to be troubled for Kamala's sake that he should be unkind.

 

Sivagami means to say as much. It is rare indeed, the afternoon she does not spend in the royal gardens with Kamala—who so loves birds, flowers, butterflies, that Vikramadeva spares no expense for the gardens' care. And there, in the gardens, where Kamala is happiest and most comfortable, Sivagami may raise the subject, may apologize for Bijjaladeva's behavior and assure Kamala that he will cause no harm.

This is what Sivagami is thinking, as she crosses a corridor and steps out into the garden courtyard. And then Kamala sees her and runs across the garden, laughing, and takes her by the hands. "Lady Sivagami! I have been waiting so long, it felt as though you would never arrive."

Sivagami smiles. Kamala is so young, sweet-faced and bright-eyed; it is so easy to be _fond_ of her, to feel oneself the indulgent elder sister.

But then she looks again, and sees there is something else afoot. Some spark alight in Kamala's gaze, some delighted mischief brightening the curve of her smile.

"Kamala, tell me," she says, and Kamala tosses back her head and laughs.

"Oh, no secret is safe from your sharp eyes, sister-in-law! Come, come—I shouldn't speak too loudly," and if only she had meant it, Sivagami would have been glad to think she was learning caution at last! But the glee writ large upon her face says otherwise: that she is pleased with the game of concealment, more than anything.

Kamala draws them off behind a stand of savani, still radiant with delight.

"I must wait a little longer to be sure, that is why I shouldn't care to be overheard," she says at once, "but I couldn't have waited to tell you one more day. Sivagami—Sivagami, Mahishmathi shall have _two_ heirs."

It takes only a moment for Sivagami to divine the meaning of this, and she grips Kamala's hands and thinks: oh. In her mind ten thousand shadows rise at once. Bijjaladeva will become grim with dissatisfaction all anew, and he may not be the only one; Vikramadeva is beloved, with strong support among Mahishmathi's kshatriya and highest ministers, but so many ills may befall a young child, so very many ills—

She looks at Kamala—bright-eyed Kamala, laughing Kamala, so wholly unshadowed—and in that instant she is resolved. Let Kamala remain as she is. The dangers that surround her will be Sivagami's to tame. Their children will be born days apart, at most; Sivagami will have every excuse to make the arrangements, to supervise their care.

Kamala's child, she promises herself, will be as her own; she will take every precaution, and nothing, _nothing_ , will stop her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**three.**

Vikramadeva dies suddenly.

No one is expecting it. He is not murdered, not assassinated; he doesn't die in battle, or on a hunt, or even in an accident.

He dies in the night. Silently, in his sleep. Sivagami wakes in the dim early morning to the sound of distant wailing growing louder, louder, and feels a cold weight settle heavily in her chest.

Bijjaladeva is told almost right away, of course. And there is a great deal to prepare, to arrange, for an entire kingdom in mourning—but Sivagami cannot help but find her gaze straying still further ahead.

So she is not surprised, when soon enough the widowed queen requests her presence.

 

There is no struggle for Sivagami in kneeling before Sumati.

They are not close. In every matter of state upon which Sumati's personal opinion has become clear to Sivagami, they have disagreed, almost without exception. Sumati has in the past, by dint of careful maneuvering, secured political support for one of Vikramadeva's military ventures from four of Sivagami's least favorite ministers; Sivagami, through Bijjaladeva, successfully urged Vikramadeva to undertake the construction of a grand avenue with bridges crossing the city canals, a project Sumati considered costly and wasteful.

But Sumati never said as much aloud, at the time. She has always been respectful, courteous—even generous, toward Sivagami. And now—

Now she is in a delicate position. Vikramadeva is gone; Bijjaladeva yet lives. If Sumati were not pregnant, the throne of Mahishmathi would be Bijjaladeva's, unless perhaps all the ministers together were united against him—and even then there might yet be ways it could be done. The thinnest of threads holds Sumati in place as queen mother, and Sumati must know it.

But Sivagami has no interest in breaking that thread. Bijjaladeva is not a man who should be a king; Sivagami knows that better than anyone. So it is easy to kneel before Sumati: to say _Please know I do not seek to topple you, Queen Mother_ without uttering a word.

"Lady Sivagami," Sumati says, and in her tone there is already heady relief—she understood.

Sivagami looks up, and then finds it difficult to look away. Sumati has never been beautiful so much as elegant, dignified; but now her eyes are red, her face drawn, and she sits like her body is too heavy for her, like she has shouldered a weight and only afterward discovered it was not one she could lift.

She looks so tired, Sivagami thinks. "Queen Mother," she says, even though that title is not yet Sumati's—because to use it is to imply that she expects it will be, to see many paths but acknowledge only one.

"I want what is best for Mahishmathi, Sivagami," Sumati says, after a moment.

"Then we are in agreement," Sivagami says, and dares to take a step forward. "The throne of Mahishmathi will not sit empty for long, Queen Mother. And when there is a king in this great city again, he shall benefit by the wise advice of Bijjaladeva."

 _Because Bijjaladeva will not be that king_ , she means; and by the long slow breath she lets out, Sumati understands this, too.

And so, Sivagami thinks, they _are_ in agreement at last, after all. She looks up at Sumati, tired and alone, eyes clear and chin high, and in that moment they are the same woman, walking the same path, bearing the same son. _He will live,_ Sivagami thinks, _he will be king,_ and she doesn't even know whether she tells it to herself or to Sumati, whether she means one child or both; but nevertheless, she feels suddenly sure it will be so.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**four.**

"We could not save the queen, my lady," Asha says, and Sivagami lets her eyes fall shut.

For one long moment, she allows her mind to go where it will; and where it will, of course, is Dipika. _Dipika_. Impossible, Sivagami's heart cries, that Dipika should be dead! Not Dipika.

Sivagami had been so—so _prepared_. She had seen what lay before her, and she had accepted it. Dipika had eyes for no one but Vikramadeva; that was all right. It was Sivagami who had walked with her in the gardens, who had stood with her on the great balcony of the queen's chambers when the first monsoons broke, who had listened to her singing to her baby to soothe the kicking. Bijjaladeva, Vikramadeva, all that came with founding a kingdom and preserving the strength of its ruling house—so many things could be borne, as long as there was Dipika. Sivagami had understood this, and had been content. She would not ask for more than this: to be Dipika's companion, to see her smile; to brush and braid her hair, to give her gifts; to see her rule beside Vikramadeva with wisdom and devotion.

And then Vikramadeva had died. Dipika had had no mind for anything but mourning, and Sivagami had done all she could to prevent state affairs from intruding, to give Dipika some semblance of peace.

But now Dipika is gone, too. And oh, how Sivagami wishes to mourn her as Dipika had mourned Vikramadeva—to rend her clothes and tear her hair, to rub her face with ashes and _wail_.

But she cannot. She must think of Mahishmathi.

She opens her eyes and takes the child Asha hands to her, feels the strength of his grip and imagines, distantly, how delighted Dipika would have been.

And there is one thing left that Sivagami can do for Dipika. For Dipika, and for Mahishmathi.

Sivagami gives one of her sons to Asha, settles the other more comfortably in her arms, and begins the long walk to the throne room where the ministers are waiting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**(and one.)**

Sivagami stands on the balcony with little Bhallaladeva and waits, but Asha doesn't come; slowly the sky begins to clear, and Sivagami looks out across the city and hums until Bhallaladeva has fallen asleep.

The queen's chambers are not far, and surely, _surely_ there is news, one way or another. The maids duck their heads and back away from the door to let her through, and for a moment their silence worries her—for a moment she sees the silhouette of a still figure lying upon the bed, and her heart is frantic in her chest.

It had not been easy at first, between Sivagami and Radhika. Vikramadeva had been smitten with Radhika for her skill with a bow and arrow, her unerring aim with a javelin; he had married her because she was a queen to conquer lesser kings.

And therefore not a queen to wheedle ministers. Headstrong, stubborn, Radhika had refused to yield her position but had none of the talent required to keep the kshatriya from resenting her for it—and oh, how many times Sivagami had been forced to intervene! How very, very many ruffled feathers she must smooth! She had begun to think Radhika would be assassinated in the night; and had, in moments of idle frustration, begun to wonder whether she might as well let it happen.

But Radhika could, at least, be convinced to accept good advice. With that archer's eye, she was observant; she had noticed that matters of state went more smoothly when Sivagami had been involved. She asked for Sivagami, more and more, and listened when Sivagami spoke, and learned that javelins were not the only way to answer challenges.

And now the child has come. Pregnancy had not been easy on Radhika, who had grown thin and pale, eyes huge in an increasingly narrow face; and the labor was so very long.

But it is over, and when Sivagami rushes toward that figure on the bed, a face turns toward her just as she reaches out to brush the trailing curtains aside.

"Sivagami," Radhika says, and her voice is faint but wry, amused, in a way that has come to make Sivagami smile.

"Radhika," Sivagami murmurs, and she sinks down upon the edge of the bed with Bhallaladeva yawning in her arms, and feels a fierce bright gladness steal through her chest. She had thought—but never mind what she had thought. Radhika has lived, and—

"Your son, my queen," says one of the maids, and Radhika reaches out for a child, swaddled in green to Bhallaladeva's red.

"Oh, he's perfect," Radhika sighs, skimming a fingertip along the boy's soft fat cheek before she lets her head drop back against the pillows. "Isn't he perfect?"

"Of course," Sivagami tells her, soothing, brushing a hand through Radhika's sweat-soaked hair. There is something like pride, like pleasure, a hot self-satisfied feeling, to think that Radhika has survived this difficulty, is alive and holding her son and looking up at Sivagami with such an unsteady smile.

"Sivagami," Radhika says again, eyes falling shut. "I was so afraid, you know. Here, I thought, was a thing I could not shoot, a thing you could not order to obey you—how would I ever make my way through?" She laughs, reaching for Sivagami; and Sivagami catches her hand and grips it hard.

"But you did," she says. "You did, Queen Mother, and your son will be king in Mahishmathi, and all will be well."

"Our son," Radhika murmurs, looking up at Sivagami with eyes that suddenly seem very dark. "Our son, Sivagami," and she turns her hand in Sivagami's, twines their fingers together, and for a moment Sivagami cannot quite catch her breath.

"Our sons," she amends softly, when she can; and Radhika smiles up at her and touches the back of Bhallaladeva's tiny fist.

"Our sons," Radhika agrees. "Bhallaladeva, and—and Amarendra. Amarendra Baahubali," and then she turns her face into Sivagami's knee and falls asleep.

 

 


End file.
